


Dragon Attack

by Severina



Series: Dragonverse [1]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Community: smallfandombang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6494320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No.  No way.  <i>Dragons</i>?  Dragons only exist in folklore and a couple of supremely cool video games, and ol' AC has clearly hit his head if he thinks that mythical beings have somehow decimated Times Square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragon Attack

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandombang. I've taken liberties with all aspects of the NYC subway system (hey, I tried to be accurate but those maps are damn confusing and I know there wouldn't be kiosks on the platform level but just work with me here, okay?) I couldn't come up with a better title, either.
> 
> * * *

I

The ringing phone wakes him. On some level Matt's aware it's been ringing for some time, that old fashioned annoyingly loud jangle of the land line that John refuses to get rid of "in case of emergency." Matt would rip the damn thing out of the wall except for the fact that he probably doesn't have the muscle mass. Also, John would be _really_ pissed. The only thing John McClane likes better than his land line is his VCR. 

He reluctantly rolls over to glare blearily at the alarm clock, and does a quick calculation. A whopping 2.3 hours have elapsed since he crawled into bed with visions of tildes and carets dancing behind his eyelids. He has the beginnings of a mild _stared too long at the monitor and drank one too many root beers_ headache twitching at his temples, the kind that only a good six hours of sack time can cure. His shin is still aching from sitting too long in one place, because even though the therapist pronounced him 'fixed' seven months ago he still has to do the bullshit exercises and his leg screams like a baby with the croup when he forgets. Not that he actually knows what that would sound like but he imagines it'd be pretty bad. 

And he was just pulled out of the middle of a _very_ good dream.

Maybe he can just ignore the phone. Just pretend he never even heard it. Nobody can get angry at him if he just slept through it, right? Right.

The clanging from the other room cuts off abruptly, and Matt blinks in the sudden silence before he slowly lets himself sink back down onto the pillow. If he's lucky he'll be able to slip right back into the part of his dream where John and Vin Diesel were having the strip-tease competition, and then—

_BARRIIING. BARRRRING. BAAARIIIIIING._

Fuck.

Unless the world is ending, someone is clearly going to die.

Matt shivers when his feet hit the cold floor; stumbles into the living room. He glowers at the archaic device perched on the end table like a malignant toadstool and has the visceral image of ripping it out of the wall, plaster flying and frayed cables dangling as he chucks it out the window. Except, muscle mass. And pissed off John McClane. Also, he _knows_ John would make him repair the damage himself, and he's not even completely sure what sheetrock _is_.

He sighs instead and lifts up the receiver. "This better be good," he says.

"You okay? What the fuck is happening over there?"

Matt slumps down on the sofa and successfully resists the urge to smack the clunky black receiver into his forehead. "Seriously, dude? I _just_ got to bed. Sleeping is what is happening. Closing my eyes, enjoying the old circadian rhythm thing? It's got a great beat but I'm not dancing to it because I'm getting some serious shut eye. You _know_ I spent the last sixteen hours working on the coding for the Raftheis—"

"Matthew," John interrupts. He's doing that speaking through his gritted teeth thing that shouldn't be a total turn-on but still completely is, the one where Matt never knows if he's about to get lambasted for leaving the milk out to spoil or get thrown onto the table with his jeans around his ankles. He has to admit that he often leaves the milk out just to see which way it will go. So far table sex is winning, four to two. He hears John take a breath, and pulls his gaze away from where it's drifted to the very sturdy dining room table. "If your area is clear, we've got some time. Turn on the news."

A car horn honks repeatedly in the background, and when John curses under his breath Matt finally gets it. John _always_ gets testy when he's stuck in a traffic jam. Matt's just glad he's not there with him, because every time he retreads that joke about how they should just ditch the car and "take up jogging, it was invented in the 60's McClane, you're gonna love it" John shoots him the death glare. Then there's definitely no table sex when he leaves the milk out that night. 

"You _know_ how I feel about the news, McClane. If you want I can find my cell and check the twitter feed for the NYC traffic tag, find out how long they think you're going to be stuck in—" 

"TURN ON THE FUCKING NEWS!"

Matt flinches back from the receiver, fumbles and finally finds the remote buried between the sofa cushions. John might get annoyed with him on an almost daily basis, but he never -- _never_ \-- raises his voice. Matt's sure that would be the case even if he hadn't told McClane about the old boyfriend and the verbal abuse that Matt put up with for entirely too long, because John is the type of guy who is actually _aware_ of the kind of strength he has.

For the first time since getting awakened by the blaring phone, Matt shakes off the last of the drowsiness that's clearly been muddling up his brain cells. Something bigger than an overturned semi clogging up the commuter lanes might be going on here. 

"Matthew," John says. 

There's a world of _I'm sorry_ in those two little syllables.

"Yeah. It's okay. I'm doing it. Give me a sec." It takes him a minute to find the local station, and when he does it's not the usual Ken Doll behind the news desk but Craig Colqhoun, the sports guy whose name Matt knows only because John always bitches about his biases during his Mets stories. He's used to Colqhoun trying and failing to look boyishly handsome in a baseball cap. But now the dude's hair looks like he's auditioning for the role of the Bride of Frankenstein in a local production and the wrinkles that are normally nominally hidden beneath a pound of pancake makeup are prominent beneath eyes that are just this side of wild.

 _"…if you cannot reach one of the designated shelters in your area, we recommend that you make your way to the nearest subway station. At this point, getting underground is the safest—"_ Colqhoun stopped and put his finger to his ear, cocked his head as he listened to the voice coming through his earpiece. _"I'm being told that we're going live to the CNN newsfeed, where Anderson Cooper is on the ground in Times Square. We take you to that broadcast already in progress."_

For a moment the logo of the NBC affiliate fills the screen, then the picture flickers and the camera pans out to a wide shot. 

Of chaos.

People running. Screams. And possibly… blood.

"What the fuck?" Matt murmurs.

The theatre district is in ruins. He can make out the remains of three buildings that had once been bastions of Broadway, now little more piles of rubble scored with blackened and charred concrete. A raging fire still blazes uncontrollably at _Juniors_ , where he and John had their first kiss after a matinee of _12 Angry Men_ and a heated debate about the judicial system. The camera hesitates over a pile of rags at the base of a light stand, and it's only after blinking repeatedly at the screen that Matt realizes the rags are what remains of a _human being_ , a scorched leg and a mangled torso and—

He feels the bile rising in his throat and swallows, whipping his head away from the television so abruptly that he feels his neck crack. He stumbles from the sofa and onto his knees, and only grasps that he still has the phone receiver in his loose grip when his fingers release and he hears the clunk of it hit the hardwood. He makes a flailing attempt to snatch it up that only succeeds in sending it skittering across the floor, its coiled cord unwinding far enough that the phone itself topples from the table with a discordant rattle. He has the brief, hysterical thought that of course _now_ would be the time that the phone actually does rip out of the wall. 

Then Anderson Cooper's voice fills the room, and he looks back at the big screen.

 _"This is Times Squares now, thirty minutes after the attack of the large, lizard-like creatures that we are tentatively terming 'dragons'. At least three of the creatures converged upon the theatre district shortly after 9 a.m. eastern standard time, appearing out of the sky from the northwest and swooping down to wreak havoc. First reports indicated that the creatures, the largest with a wing span of up to fifty feet—"_

Matt shakes his head. No. No way. _Dragons_? Dragons only exist in folklore and a couple of supremely cool video games, and ol' AC has clearly hit his head if he thinks that mythical beings have somehow decimated Times Square. It has to be a military attack of some kind. Terrorists. It has to be. John would know.

Matt scrambles across the floor on his hands and knees, swipes up the receiver in one hand and lifts it to his ear.

"…you there? Jesus Christ, kid, ANSWER ME!"

"I'm here!" Matt yells. Behind him, Cooper is still droning on about military air response and seeking underground shelter and _fire breathing fucking dragons_. He glances over his shoulder at the big screen in time to see the neon-lit signage for _Mama Mia_ topple end over end before landing on a taxi skewed half onto the pavement and… and he's pretty sure there's still someone IN the cab. He can see an arm waving and then there's nothing left but a mangled crush of steel and the camera wavers and there's _something_ on the horizon, something large and indistinct but shaped like the creatures found in a dozen hundred stories in the sword and sorcery books he read as a teenager and he can't breathe, he really can't get his breath and—

"Matthew," John says slowly. Calmly. 

Matt realizes he's been crushing the receiver in his fist, his breath whistling in and out like a fucking teakettle. He doesn't release his white-knuckled hold on the phone, but he _listens_ \-- not to the muted screams and sounds of toppling brick and mortar from the television but to John's measured breathing. Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out. Within five rotations his pulse is still racing but he no longer feels like his lungs are going to burst out of his chest.

"Okay," he finally says, and his voice cracks but he's fine. He's _fine_. "What the hell is going on?"

"First, it's real. We don’t know—"

"It can't be real!" 

"Matthew."

Right. Matt bites down on the edge of hysteria, does another round of breathing. He's fine. Absolutely perfect. There are giant fire breathing dragons attacking Manhattan, but hey, he's good. 

"Okay," he says again. "These are actual dragons."

"Yes," John says.

Now that he's no longer in danger of passing out Matt can hear the blare of car horns again. John is somewhere out there, in the city, where there are a minimum of three no-longer-mythical creatures laying waste to a large segment of the population. This is bad. On the plus side, _John McClane_ is out there, and John is the best asskicker he knows. So honestly, the odds are pretty even. 

Matt swipes a hand through his hair and deliberately turns his back on the television. "And what are we doing about it?"

He hears John huff out a strangled laugh, and frowns at the phone.

"I didn't mean we as in YOU, I just meant—"

"Yeah, kid, you did," John says. "And right now we're doing this: you're gonna get in the damn basement. I'm comin' for ya. After that we'll figure it—"

Matt winces as a blast of sound screeches from the receiver, can make out the crunch of metal on metal and the squeal of brakes. He's on his feet before he's aware he's moved, his hand once again finding its way into his hair. "John? JOHN?"

Silence except for the tinkle of breaking glass, audible even over the endless cacophony of the horns. He doesn't even know where John _is_ and there isn't going to be any emergency services with fucking _dragons_ in the mix and now he can't breathe again, he really can't—

"I'm fine, kid. Some moron in a – YOU GET YOUR LICENCE FROM A CANDY DISPENSER, PAL?"

Matt sinks again to his knees. He'd thought that the memories of that crazy fourth of July weekend were still seared in his brain, every millisecond still crystal clear despite the two years between then and now. But now he knows that he's actually forgotten _all of it_ – the spikes of adrenaline and the worry and the uncertainty and the fear. Mostly the fear, that rises like a wave and then crests and then either pushes you under to drown or forces you to hold on like a motherfucker and ride. 

"Jesus Christ, John," he manages to get out.

"On foot," John says after a minute. His breathing is heavy, and Matt knows better than to ask if he sustained any injuries in the crash. Which was obviously serious if he's had to abandon the car. And anyway, the _last_ time John got injured in the line of duty he called the eight inch gash from bicep to elbow a 'scratch', so. 

So. Once again, he's going to ride this fucker. 

Matt takes a deep breath and puts the car crash aside to focus on more practical matters. They're going to need food, the extra ammo that's locked up in the bedroom safe, some clothing. He can gather all of that and then head to the basement to wait. While John traverses the city on foot among a panicked populace that is fleeing from _dragons_.

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Matt nods to himself and opens his mouth to tell all this to John when the phone emits an ear-splitting shriek that has him shuffling backwards and nearly dropping it again. When he tentatively puts the receiver back to his ear there is nothing but the whistle of open air. And he knows it's fruitless but that doesn't stop him from shouting John's name about eleventy billion times into the phone before he finally hangs up and replaces it in the cradle. 

"Shit," he mumbles.

Matt pushes himself to his feet. Behind him, he can still hear Anderson Cooper, but now even AC's normally calm and placid voice sounds edged with panic. Matt resolutely doesn't look back at the screen, because food and ammo and clothes and he should see how much bottled water they have stored in the pantry and there must be a storm coming in because the room is darkening by the second and John is out there _alone_ and… and then the noise fills the air and he turns slowly to face the large picture window leading out to their tiny little backyard. 

It is the sound of sheets flapping on the line but amplified a hundred fold. It is the sound of two cats fighting on the fence in the middle of the night as heard through the speakers at a rock concert. It drowns out the television, drowns out the voices he only now realizes he could hear shouting in the street the whole time he was talking to John; drowns out the thoughts in his head and makes him want to cower and cover his ears. But he stands and goes to the window and tilts his head up and up and _up_ and watches the monstrous winged creature glide across the skyline.

"Ohhhhh shit," he says again.

 

II

"Fuck!" 

John slams his thumb onto the END button and throws his arm back; only just stops himself from smashing the useless cell phone onto the concrete. The land lines might not get back up but the damn kid doesn't go anywhere without his iPhone. Eventually he'll be able to get through. And if not… he'll be back at the house soon enough and Matt'll be in his arms.

He tucks the phone into the pocket of his jeans and scans the road. Nothing moving – the fat cat in the fucking Mercedes that fishtailed into his sedan caused a chain reaction. He can also see another half dozen accidents that he unfortunately can't blame on Mr. Gucci and his white wall tires and leather interior. The street looks like a kid overturned a bucket of hotwheels onto the pavement. He hops up onto the hood of some little Japanese number with steam sizzling out of its grill and shields his eyes; follows the line of crashed and abandoned vehicles to the bridge, hazy in the distance. Beyond it, a few winding streets and his house, where Matt will be hunkered down in the basement. Where Matt will _please_ be hunkered down in the basement, safe and alive.

And he ain't gonna get there by standing around like some lookie-lou, either.

He swipes the blood from the scrape on his head out of his eyes, then jumps down and brings his attention back to the road. They're spilling out of their cars now, singles and in twos and threes. Some bleeding, some clutching broken limbs, all of them with that dazed look of shock and disbelief in their eyes. "Stay calm!" John shouts. "Everybody keep movin'! Back the way we came!"

He shepherds a few people in the right direction, stops to help a teenager wearing too much eye makeup and a flowered coat that looks like it's made out of plastic fix a makeshift bandage on a woman's arm. He doesn't like the look in the woman's eyes – too glazed, too vacant, hands clenched around an oversized bag as though her life depends on it – and he hesitates, frustrated. Nothing he can do for her but urge them back toward the City, where hopefully the National Guard is setting up, maybe some Red Cross shelters somewhere down the line. He meets the kid's eyes and sees the boy nod; squeezes his shoulder before he lurches back to his feet. He watches them go – the woman swaying and picking her way around the detritus of the roadway, the boy's arm around her shoulders. People push and shove past them and it's too much responsibility for some fifteen year old who oughta be playing video games and eating corn chips right about now, maybe thinking about that cute girl in home room. Or maybe that cute boy.

"Shit," John mutters.

He puts them out of his mind. Has to. Matt always tells him he can't save them all, never mind how much he wants to. He spins back toward the bridge and nearly bumps into an old guy staggering past the wreckage of an SUV. His brain registers the jagged cut on the man's cheek, the ripped shirt sleeve; assesses the injuries as minimal and waves him on. "Keep movin'!" he says again, raises his voice to be heard to the others still stumbling from their cars. "Get off the street!"

"Saw you helping that strangely attired young fellow," the geezer says. He gestures behind him, the ragged edges of his sleeve flapping in the wind, to a small group huddled around the hulk of something that might have been a Toyota. "You ought to come with us. Several of us from the tour group are heading back and taking shelter in the atrium of that bank down by the—""

"No, no!" John says. "They take out the building you get crushed in the rubble. Keep movin', there's a subway entry just past Fulton on the left hand side. Get underground!"

The man hesitates. "Allie's not going to like it. She's got claustrophobia, you see. The only way we could convince her to take this trip was to promise we would never take the subway."

"Yeah, well, you ain't breakin' your promise. She's not gonna be takin' the subway anywhere today."

Surprisingly, the old man smiles. "I suppose that's true enough. She's beaten on a technicality. That will teach her that she always needs to read the fine print!"

"Garry, come on!" one of the women in his group calls out.

"That's Allie." The geezer – Garry – scowls over his shoulder before reaching out with one arthritic hand to touch his sleeve. The smile is gone like it never was and he can't hide the fear in his eyes and his eagerness to get moving, but the old man stands tall. "You really ought to come with us," he repeats.

"Somebody I gotta find first," John says, "in Brooklyn. Go on, I'll catch up with ya later, buddy."

But the oldster isn't looking at him anymore, his mouth hanging open and his gaze fixated on a spot somewhere over John's shoulder. "I don't think that's going to happen, mister," he says slowly.

John doesn't want to look. He can hear it already – the thud of its wings as it beats at the sky, the screech of its cry rending the air. He turns regardless, his hand creeping subconsciously to the shoulder holster and the gun that won't do a single bit of good. 

The dragon is monstrous. Sixty feet, seventy? Big enough that his mind can't comprehend the size, can't take in how a thing that large could possibly take to the air and stay aloft. It's mid-section reminds him of the belly of a 747; its wings have the fibrous yet delicate appearance of a bat. Its slick black scales look wet, even from this distance, and when it swoops abruptly toward the bridge John is reminded suddenly of a cockroach startled into action, skittering effortlessly across a countertop.

Next to it, the fighter jet looks like a child's toy.

He recognizes the F-35 from his brief sojourn surfing on its wing before jumping onto a collapsing bridge, the _last_ time the shit hit the fan. Of course, that time only his daughter's life and the country's potential financial collapse was at stake. John's lips quirk. _Only_. But this time…

When the dragon opens its mouth, the roar eats all other sound. The blast of fire engulfs the struts and liquefies the metal on the bridge until it runs like candle wax; snaps the cables with a sound like the world's loudest and largest guitar strings. The bridge heaves, then ripples like waves on an ocean, and John is thankful that they are far enough away that he cannot hear the screams as the cars on the bridge slip and slide and topple end over end into the water. 

Metal screams as the bridge folds and the dragon pulls out of its dive, flaps its wings once and then twice to again take the sky. John forces his gaze away from the seemingly slow motion tide of vehicles that suddenly find themselves vertical instead of horizontal; searches for and finds the tiny F-35 buzzing in closer to the creature. He holds his breath when the jet disappears briefly, the black of its surface indistinct from the shiny black scales on the dragon's hide, and then shakes his head when the jet reappears directly in front of the dragon's maw. The pilot must have balls of fucking steel.

But even from miles away he can see the dragon's intake of breath as it readies another blast of that metal-melting fire. The jet will go up like a sparkler.

"What the hell are you doing, asshole?" he shouts. "Take your shot!"

In a heartbeat the jet dives toward the creature's unprotected belly. The streak of the missile is little more than the flick of a match in a dark room… but the explosion when the warhead hits its mark ruptures the creature's stomach and sends a mammoth gush of dark viscous blood and chunks of internal organs spewing into the water below.

There are ragged cheers from behind him as the thing falters, flaps its wings once again in a desperate attempt to gain altitude, and then plummets toward the earth.

"Did he get away? DID HE GET AWAY?" someone shouts.

"There!" John recognizes the voice as Allie's, she of the fear of enclosed spaces, and looks over his shoulder to see where she is pointing. He follows the line of her finger and…yes, the fighter jet is safe and away, turning in a wide arc and speeding back toward the lower east side.

The dragon roars again, and John turns back in time to see that the blast of flame from its jagged mouth is now little more than a sputter of sparks. It makes one last anxious surge toward the sky before its wings fold and it drops, but now it is over the borough. Over Brooklyn. 

Over his home.

The body skids across the tops of the buildings – buildings John knows. The mill converted into artists space that holds outdoor festivals every summer; the coffee shop where Matt sometimes pays half a fortune for a brew just because it's got a name like 'Organic Columbian Sunrise' or 'Lava Java', with its rows of apartments on the upper floors; the new condo block that just went up last spring. All of them inhabited, some of them inhabited by people he _knows_ even if it's just to nod in passing or to hand over a fiver for a cup of joe. 

He watches the tops sheared from those buildings as the dragon plunges to the ground; sees concrete crumble like construction paper. 

"Whoever thought we'd live to see something like this," the old man says in wonderment. 

"Yeah," John mutters. "What a time to be alive."

 

**III**

"Holy shit," Matt mumbles.

A part of him realizes that he used to be _much_ more verbose than this; that his vocabulary used to consist of more than awe-struck curse words murmured through a mouth that's gaping like a fish on a hook. But stumbling through the rubble that is all that remains of his street he finds it difficult to remember any of that encyclopedic knowledge that made him the reigning champion of Words With Friends. 

He swipes his hand through his hair, grimaces when he comes up with a palm full of fine grey dust. He can still see the fires burning two, three blocks over; the crumpled shells of buildings nearer to home that felt not only that searing heat but also the rip of the dragon's claws; entire houses ripped apart down to their foundations with a flick of that long spiked tail; the huge swath of buildings that the dragon blasted before it abruptly turned and headed west. That was all he'd seen before he'd dived behind the dubious shelter of a garbage bin and buried his head in his arms.

Now he turns in a slow circle in the middle of street, tracks the path of destruction and tries to take comfort that it is a Tuesday afternoon and that most of their neighbours would be away at work.

Except for Mrs. Galloway, and her tidy little clapboard is nothing more than flattened wood and smoking embers. Except for Christine and her nasty Pomeranian, and he'd seen the charcoal briquette that used to be her brick bungalow on his dazed walk back to the house. Except for…

Matt shakes his head. He doesn't have to be an EMT to know that the chances of survival for someone like Mrs. Galloway in her wheelchair are slim, and even if he had a way to dig her out of the wreckage her house has become he has no way to take care of her once she's free. His best bet is to make his way to one of those safe havens Colqhoun was talking about. Find help. Guide someone back to the neighbourhood and direct them to the houses where people were likely to be home during the day.

The decision helps calm his racing heart, makes him feel more like himself. He takes a deep breath, coughs out a lungful of dirt and concrete dust. He can do this.

He turns, and that's when he sees the guy in the dirty denim jacket. The guy with the really large knife. One might even call that knife Rambo-esque. 

"Give me your wallet," the guy says.

Maybe it's delayed reaction to the shock. Maybe it's his well-known and much lamented – by John, anyway – lack of filter between his brain and his mouth. But Matt glances down at his pajama pants, then back up at the guy a few feet away. "Seriously?" he says.

The guy gestures with the weapon. The extremely large, extremely sharp weapon. Sometimes Matt really regrets those nights that he let John talk him into watching all those studly macho man flicks from the bad old '80's, because now he has a nice Technicolor image of just how much damage a knife that size can do. Goddamn Stallone.

"You think I'm joking?"

Matt definitely does not think he's joking. He has a _vibrant_ imagination, and it takes very little to envision his guts spilling out onto the pavement. Yet he still flaps a hand behind him to indicate the ruin of the street. "A _giant fire breathing dragon_ just took down my entire neighbourhood. This could quite possibly be the end of humankind as we know it. And you want my _wallet_?"

The guy nods. "Hand it over."

"Dude," Matt says, "if this goes as far south as I think it's going to – and believe me, while I haven't exactly crunched the numbers on this particular scenario because honestly, who would consider that dragons were an actual possibility? – I have worked out a surprising number of probability outcomes in many different apocalypse scenarios, up to and including vampires and the walking dead. And I can tell you that money is going to be worthless in whatever new world rises from the ashes of this one. Money isn't going to have any value in--"

The guy sniffs. "Yeah, you know who says shit like that? The fuckers with all the money."

"You want my money?" Matt says in exasperation. He digs his wallet – one of the few things he'd thought to grab because noooo don't grab the cell phone or the emergency kit in the closet or a fucking _weapon_ , he grabs his wallet because sometimes he's a _moron_ – out of his pajama pocket and thrusts it forward. "Here, take it. Take the credit cards, too! Oh, and there's a discount coupon for a dollar off a hemp shake at the Bohemian Garden, might as well take that while you're at it. I'm sure they'll be open for business _during the Apocalypse_!"

The thin black billfold hits the guy in the denim jacket in the chest before tumbling to the rubble strewn street. They both watch it flop over once before hitting a chunk of melted plastic that might once have been someone's television set. Maybe even his.

"Well?" Matt barks out.

The guy lifts a shoulder. "Name's Nathan."

"You always give your name out to the people you rob?"

"Never robbed anyone before," the guy – Nathan – says with another shrug. Matt cringes when he dips the knife into his waistband and bends over, because if that doesn't seem like a sure-fire way to ensure the dude never has kids he doesn't know what else would, and retrieves the wallet from the midst of the debris. He holds it out, and at least has the good grace to look sheepish about it. "You really think this is the end?"

"Well I don't have my magic eight ball with me, but all signs point to yes," Matt says. He takes the wallet and shoves it back into his pocket, studies the guy for a second. Now that the knife is set aside and he doesn't have to think about the possibility of wearing his guts for garters, Nathan doesn't look all that bad. Young – a few years younger than him at least – and pale beneath the grit and grime. He looks scared shitless, actually. "I'm heading down toward the bridge," he says. "I think Colqhoun said something about a shelter there. You can… I can't believe I'm saying this to the guy who just threatened me with a Rambo blade…"

"It's more like Crocodile Dundee, actually," Nathan interrupts.

"Not helping, dude," Matt says. He sighs, shoves a hand again through his gritty hair. "You can come along if you want."

"Cool." 

Matt shakes his head but turns his back and begins picking his way through the rubble. They are halfway down the deserted street and Matt is mostly focused on whether Colqhoun actually _did_ mention a shelter or if that memory is a figment of his imagination when Nathan says, "You got a cell phone?"

"Why, you gonna steal that too?" Matt answers as he comes to a stop. "No, I don't have a cell phone!"

Nathan looks skeptical. "You don't have a cell phone."

"Of course I have a cell phone!" Matt huffs out. "Everyone has a cell phone. My great-grandmother in Pine Heights Nursing Home has a fucking cell phone, and she's ninety two years old!"

"You just said—"

"I was running for my life, dude! My cell phone _was_ sitting next to a row of empty root beer cans on the desk in my office when I went to bed, okay? Bed, where I was trying to get a little shut-eye after being up for twenty-four fucking hours! But now? Now my cell phone is crushed under the remains of what used to be my goddamn house!" Matt takes a lurching step forward. "And you know what? This isn't even the _first fucking time_ my house has blown up, okay? Maybe we're fucking cursed. Maybe John is right and there's a --- OH MY GOD IS THIS A HOLIDAY?"

"Not unless you count National Aviation Day, and you don't look much like a pilot to me."

"Thank God," Matt breathes out as he starts walking again. "Maybe it won't be all bad, then. Come on."

"You realize you don't make a hell of a lot of sense, right?"

"My boyfriend would say you ain't heard the half of it," Matt says. The thought of John makes his eyes suddenly prick with tears, and he looks down quickly and makes a show of studying the best way around the squashed remains of a box freezer. Wasn't he just thinking that John is the most kickass person he knows? If there's anyone who can survive a car crash and the pandemonium of a city street in the aftermath of a dragon attack – an actual motherfucking _dragon attack_ \-- it would be John McClane. So he's fine. Of course he's fine. And just because he doesn't know where in all of Manhattan John actually IS while he's being fine is neither here nor there. 

"I think your boyfriend probably has a lot of patience," Nathan says dryly when they've navigated past the worst of the debris.

"Sorry that I keep, you know…" Matt waves his hands in the air in a way that he hopes aptly demonstrates the state of his mind. "I wish I could say that it was just the stress and adrenaline, but I'm like this most of the time. So yeah, he does. Of course," he adds pointedly, "the attempted robbery at knife point didn't help." 

"Yeah," Nathan says. "Sorry about that."

"Sure."

"I just mentioned the cell phone because not everyone does have one. I don't. And I know the towers are most likely overloaded and nothing would get through, but if you had one you could have tried calling. Someone. Like your boyfriend or whoever."

"Yeah," Matt says. He allows himself to think longingly for a moment of his state of the art iPhone and then resolutely puts it out of his mind. John is fine, after all – he's absolutely fine, guaranteed, no doubt in his mind, one hundred percent certain – and he'll find him. Some other way. That doesn't involve a cell phone. "Well, like you said," he says, "the towers are probably overloaded, anyway."

 

** IV **

"Goddamn motherfucking towers are fuckin'—" John listens for a moment longer to the high pitched squeal coming from his cell before pressing the phone to his forehead in frustration. The shriek diminishes in volume but doesn't stop.

"I know you're frustrated with the lack of cellular reception, Detective McClane," Garry says from his elbow, "but your _language_."

"Entire city's going to shit," John says incredulously – he's still seeing flashes in front of his eyes from the fireball that went up a few blocks away – "and you're worried about my fuckin' _language_?"

Garry looks as though he's swallowed a particularly sour slice of lemon. "It's just quite… unseemly, don't you think?"

"Unseemly," John repeats. The phone is still howling at him, and he jabs down at the END button and shoves it back into his pocket. If he had a clue about that 'satcom' thing he could reroute it, get some reception, but he doesn't have any fucking idea what a 'satcom' is. Hell, what he knows about cell phones could fit on the head of a pin with room to spare for the Gettysburg Address. Dealing with the electronic jibber jabber is Matt's job. 

"A little uncouth," Garry clarifies.

"Yeah well, I'm a New York City cop. We don't got a lot of couth," John answers.

"You _are_ rather like the stereotypical police officers from New York that are depicted in the movies," Garry says. "I keep expecting you to pull out your weapon and tell someone to 'Freeze'. Followed by an expletive, of course."

"Of course," John says wryly. "I prefer 'yippy ki yay, motherfucker'."

Garry ignores this with what looks like years of long practice. "You can try again when we get to the subway entrance," he tells him with a tug on his sleeve. "Or even as we're walking. Goodness knows some of us will be moving slowly enough. The group…"

Yeah. The group. John glances over Garry's shoulder to the people milling uncertainly near the cracked window of the pharmacy, all of them casting frightened looks to the sky. There is nothing above them but the brilliant blue of a late spring day and several fluffy white clouds. It's been clear since they saw the second dragon swooping down over Midtown and heard the distant thud and thump of collapsing buildings and saw the dust cloud rise and hover in the air. But it's only a matter of time before one of the dragons heads back this way. Law of averages. Plus he's under no illusion about the McClane curse. It might not be Thanksgiving or Valentine's Day or even Arbour Day, but you add John McClane into the mix and the chances of disaster go way the hell up.

And somehow John has found himself promising to shepherd a bunch of retired schoolteachers from Boise to the nearest underground entrance before he can get back into the mix and figure out how to _stop_ this thing. Before he can make sure that Matt… that Matt isn't… that Matt wasn't home when…

John presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, takes a breath. When he removes it, no fairy has come along to take over. The cavalry hasn't driven over the hill. There's just him and Garry, watching him with concern and sympathy.

"Right," John says. "Okay, we've got two more blocks. Your people ready?"

"As ready as they can be," Garry says, "despite Malcolm's bad hip and my own asthma. The dust from all the downed buildings is making it act up quite frightfully, I'm afraid. Have you ever had asthma, Detective McClane?"

John swallows dryly, and tries to remind himself that he doesn't even know if the downed dragon and its mad dying skid through the borough made it as far as his house. For all he knows Matt is safe in the basement, bored as shit and playing solitaire on his cell phone. With his inhaler tucked carefully in his pocket. "No," he says shortly, "but I know someone who does."

"Frightful," Garry says again. 

John nods and shuffles the old man toward his party. It _is_ slow going, especially when they turn the corner and come across the wreckage. It's not just damage from innumerable car crashes here. Here, one of the dragons has made its wrath known. What remains of shoe stores and delicatessens, jewelry stores and banks has simply crumbled into the street, from chunks of brick and mortar bigger than a city bus to fist-sized rocks. Except for a lucky few, the vehicles that were in the street are mostly crushed like tin cans, and the people… 

John hears Allie retch and moves quickly to her side, drapes an arm around her shoulder. "Just don't look," he tells her. He raises his voice. "That goes for all of you! Just keep your faces forward. Remember to keep your mouths covered to filter out the dust! We're almost there!"

He wishes he could take his own advice. The old folks keep their backs straight and their eyes forward and soldier on, stumbling over the detritus that is all that remains of a prosperous street in what had been a thriving metropolis, holding on to each other to stay upright. But John looks. At charred pavement and smoking rubble and blood dripping from the curb and the single protruding leg buried beneath a mound of still smoldering bricks, and it's not until he's past the mangled remnants of the building that he realizes the leg is all that remains; that the limb ends in a mass of exposed bone and bloody sinew. 

He feels the bile rise in his own throat and looks away quickly, but still knows that the image will be burned in his mind.

The shapely leg had still been wearing a high heeled black stiletto.

He's so focused on not looking at anything at all and just getting the goddamn schoolmarms to the Fulton station that he's halfway past the overturned truck before he understands what he's seeing. Then he stops.

"Wait a minute. Wait a god damn minute," John mutters.

"Detective?"

Allie's voice is tremulous, her eyes wide and unblinking. He pats her on the arm and gives her what he hopes is an encouraging smile – it feels more like a grimace – before he leaves her side to duck quickly across to the other side of the street. He bends down to lean in to the cab of the truck and… bingo. 

"Yes!" John crows.

"Detective?" Garry now, making his careful way through the rubble. "We really shouldn't stop. The dragons—"

"Got somethin' I gotta do here, Garry," John says. 

He didn't think Garry's creased face could wrinkle any further, but the old man manages it when he frowns. "Detective, there's little time. The weather is turning, and we need to get to the subway station befo—"

"No, no, you're fine." John takes the geezer by the arm, points down the street. "See, the black sign, the letters and numbers in the blue and green circles? That's it, right there. Just take your people down the stairs and get 'em as far away from the entrance as you can, all right?"

He watches Garry squint down the street before turning his pale blue eyes back to him. "And you? You're not coming with us?"

"I'll be right behind you. Got to take care of this, first."

Garry looks from the overturned F-150 to his face. "Dare I ask what you intend?"

"You could, but time's a-wastin'," John says. "Do you want an explanation, or do you want to get your people underground where it's safer?"

For a minute he thinks the old guy is going to insist on an explanation. Garry _was_ a professor after all, and John knows firsthand that the brainiacs always want to know what the hell's going on. In infinite detail. Matt's never happy unless he's not only figured out the current situation, but also has about six backup plans for every possible scenario. Their road trip to the Grand Canyon was a fucking nightmare. 

"Safety first," Garry finally says reluctantly. The grip he takes on John's arm is surprisingly firm. "But promise me you'll follow when your task here is complete. I've taken quite a liking to you, Detective McClane."

John is almost surprised that the feeling is mutual. "Back at ya, Garry. Now get your people out of here."

The old man nods gravely, and John watches as he gives his people a brief explanation before herding them down the street. He lifts a hand to return Allie's parting wave, then watches until they're within fifty yards of the underground entrance before he drops to his knees and digs carefully among the shattered glass and twisted metal. 

He comes up with a battered CB radio. And when he hits the power button, the CB hums to life.

"Bingo," John whispers.

He quickly tunes the frequency. Takes a steadying breath before he lifts the microphone. Hell, he even sends up a little prayer to the Big Guy upstairs. Never know when that might come in handy. Then he depresses the SEND button.

"Freddie! You there?"

The open frequency hisses. He holds his breath. Counts to ten. 

Nothing.

He pushes down on the button again. "FREDDIE! GET YOUR FAT ASS OFF THE DAMN SOFA AND ANSWER ME!"

"Fuck, dude, you don't have to yell," Kaludis's voice answers after a moment. "And might I remind you that insulting the person you have contacted is hardly the right way to start off a conversation. You might want to begin by asking me how Baltimore is faring during Attack of the Flying Lizard Creatures. But noooo, you just jump right in to the body shaming."

John rests the mic on his chest while he counts to ten, then twenty. When he feels like he's not going to try to reach through the radio and rip Freddie's vocal chords out through his nostrils, he raises the microphone and tries again. "Freddie, I need your help."

Silence. The hiss of open air.

John grits his teeth. "Freddie," he says again, his grip on the mic so tight he's surprised he's not crushing it into so much grey powder and tangled wire, "how is Baltimore doing?"

"Only one sighting," the punk answers immediately, "and our National Guard is on it. Thanks for asking, McClane," he adds sarcastically.

"How is it that nobody has ever punched you in the fucking nose?"

"Nobody can _find_ me," Freddie says triumphantly. "I'm the Warlock, dude! Master of the airwaves! I got enough backdoors, side alleys and trip wires set up to make it damn impossible for anyone to find my command centre unless I give 'em the okay, and there are quite literally two people in the fucking world that have been given that privilege, let me tell—"

"I can't reach Matt," John interrupts. "He was supposed to get to shelter but I don't know… the lines are down, the system's fucking overloaded. We told them an overhaul was needed when the report came in after the firesale, and nobody did a goddamn thing!" John paces as far as the cord will allow before crouching next to the vehicle. "I need you to do that thingamabob that you did with Bowman that time. Get Matt's cell phone to ring, patch him through to me."

"You act like it's as easy as throwing a switch," Freddie says after a moment.

"Isn't it?"

There is a moment of silence, then: "Well, for somebody like me it's more like throwing _three_ switches," Freddie says. His voice softens. "New York's bad, huh?"

John nods, swipes a hand over his chin and deliberately doesn't look at the piles of rubble, at the blood, at the mound half a block away that holds what is left of a young woman. "It's bad."

"Shit," Freddie says. "I want to know that Farrell's all right as much as you do, dude. He's an annoying little shit but he's also my best friend, so. Hold the line, McClane."

It's the longest five minutes of John's life. The street is empty but for him, not a sound to be heard save for the occasional rumble as something balanced precariously shifts and crashes to the earth. He eventually brushes aside some of the bits of safety glass that litter the ground and plops down on his ass, rests his back against the still-warm metal of the overturned truck. The wind gusts and he tilts his head up and scans the sky. Half an hour ago the sky had been the blue of a robin's egg, the clouds white. Now the sky is edging toward slate grey, and the clouds have turned dark. The old man was right – the weather is turning. At least the only danger in the sky right now is from a thunder storm. The dragons haven't returned, and though he strains he can't hear the flapping of wings in the distance or—

"McClane."

John depresses the switch on the microphone quickly. "Here. Did you reach him? Matty, you there?"

There is another hiss of open air before Freddie breathes into the microphone. "I couldn't get him, McClane. Not even the voice mail."

John slumps back against the truck. He'd been… so sure. So confident that Kaludis would just work his magic and he'd be able to hear the kid's voice; reassure himself that Matt was all right. And he can tell himself all he likes that Matt might have simply dropped his phone and broken it or somehow forgotten it, but the kid has that iPhone practically surgically attached and…

John shakes his head, closes his eyes. Matt has to be fine. 

The alternative is unthinkable. 

"McClane? Listen, I couldn't reach Farrell but I did reach somebody, okay? McClane? You there?"

"Yeah," John says listlessly. "I'm here."

"Okay. Hold on." There is a click and a shiver of static on the line, then Kaludis says "Go ahead" and the hiss is replaced by a new voice.

"Daddy?"

John bolts up, his grip on the microphone bone-crunching. "Lucy? Honey, are you all right?"

"Are you okay?" she says breathlessly. "They keep showing images of the city on the news and it looks—is Matt okay? Where are you? Are you in a shelter?"

John lets out a shaking breath. "I'm fine, Luce. We're… we're both fine." He winces past the lie, rushes to continue before she can hear it in his voice and call him on it. She's smart like that. Whip smart. Gets it from Holly. "What's going on in California? They there?"

She doesn't have to ask what he means by 'they'. "Nothing," she says. "No sightings. The Army's mobilized and the National Guard; they've put out a curfew and urged everyone to take shelter just in case. But they're saying on the news that it's only the east coast getting hit. New York, Philadelphia, Boston." She pauses, and he doesn't have to see her to know that her eyes are narrowing as she thinks back on what he's already said. "Are you sure you're both all right?" 

"Fine, Luce," he says, and this time the lie comes out smooth as fifty year old whiskey. "Just fuckin' happy that you chose this week to go see your mother."

"I wish I was there," she answers, and John knows that's not a lie. " _Are_ you in a shelter? Tell me you're not out there trying to take on half a dozen dragons armed with only your handgun and your witty repartee, because I swear to God, John, I will find a way to fly out there just to kick your ass."

"You know I hate it when you call me John."

" _Are_ you?"

The stubbornness she definitely gets from the McClane side of the family. 

"I'm in a shelter. Fulton Street subway. Jeeeezus, Luce, you're worse than a dog with a bone." That lie flows a little easier. After all, he _will_ be in a shelter. Soon. As soon as he makes sure his little girl is all right. "Where are you, honey?"

For the first time, there's a pause on the line. "I'm… Nakatomi has a… it's sort of a fall-out shelter. We got here a few hours ago."

"Where, Lucy?"

"Mom says it's… it's a secret location. All this cloak and dagger stuff. You'd think we were protecting the President, it's ridiculous."

John sits up a little straighter. He and Holly settled all their differences long ago and he's got no issue with her or Nakatomi, but this is his _daughter_ they're talking about. And if Nakatomi – or Holly – thinks they're going to keep her hidden from him, they've got another think coming. 

"Luce," he says slowly, "if the shit hits the fan there I need to know where to fucking find you!"

There is another pause, and John holds his breath until Lucy starts speaking quickly. "I don't know the address, but it's an old toy warehouse converted to apartments. It says Toy Wholesalers on the brick outside. We got in through a passageway on the left hand – Mom! Dad's right, he needs to know – on the left hand side. A hidden doorway. There's a staircase... we're probably seventy, eighty feet below ground. We're safe, Dad, no matter what."

John realizes he's been crunching the microphone again, and slowly relaxes his grip. "Okay, honey. Stay there. Stay safe."

"You do the same!" Lucy scolds. "Don't try to pull any macho bullshit. Tell Farrell I told him he has to keep you in line."

John closes his eyes. "Will do, honey," he says softly. 

"Mom's telling me I have to go…"

John nods. "Okay. Love you kiddo."

"Love you too, Dad."

"Hey, Lucy," he says quickly before Freddie can cut in on the transmission. "Did you say half a dozen dragons?"

"That's how many have been spotted so far in New York," Lucy answers. "You… didn't know?"

"Shit," John says.

"Yeah," Lucy agrees. "Fucking dragons. What are the chances? I totally had zombies on the Warlock's End of the World lottery."

John huffs out a laugh. He's still laughing when Kaludis comes back on the line. If things do go south and he ends up as some kind of lizard fricassee, at least his laughter was the last thing his daughter heard from him. He can live with that.

 

** V **

There is no shelter set up at the park near the bridge.

Matt hardly notices. Because there is also no bridge.

He knows that he keeps moving forward, one foot in front of the other. He's aware, too, that Nathan is still matching him step for step, though some of the stragglers they'd picked up on the long walk through the destroyed neighbourhoods have stopped, frozen in their tracks, mouths agape and eyes wide. 

The structure on the Manhattan side still stands, though it lurches crookedly to the right, and there's still a wide section of roadway jutting out above the churning water below. Then the road ends in jagged spikes of metal and hunks of concrete that look half melted, like a child's ice cream cone that's been dropped on the pavement. The rest of the bridge, including all the support structures on the Brooklyn side, have toppled into the East River. And far below, he can also see flashes of other, brighter colours. Reds and blues, one blinding section of lime green. At first his eyes can't make sense of these distant sparks of light, and then he understands that he's seeing the cars that haven't already been swept away from the scene of the destruction.

Matt stumbles back, blinks rapidly, tries to remember what John had said to him on the phone. The exact words won't come. He remembers that John had been driving, trying to get home, and there was an accident and… and no more. No idea if he'd already reached the bridge that had been standing for eight billion years and they figured would stand for eight billion more and is now no more than crumpled—

He jumps when Nathan touches his sleeve. "He wasn't on the bridge," Nathan says softly.

"WE DON'T…" Matt swallows dryly, can't look away from the mangled and twisted metal. "I don't know that," he says again when he thinks he can speak without screaming. His heart is still pounding, the sound of his pulse thick in his ears, but he's not screaming. Score one for Farrell.

"You'll know when we find him," Nathan says reasonably. "So let's find him."

Nathan is, Matt has discovered, basically the most reasonable person he's ever met. No matter what comes out of his mouth – and during their walk, Matt had found himself going on about some pretty outrageous theories even by his own less than rigorous standards in order to keep his mind occupied with things that aren't McClane – and every single time Nathan would just blink slowly and respond as though Matt was talking about something completely… normal. Which even Matt is willing to admit is not always the case. Especially today.

It's a little bit comforting and a little bit annoying.

"Just _find him_ ," Matt says incredulously. "In case you haven't noticed, the Brooklyn Bridge is basically chopsticks right now, not to mention the very real fact that I have no fucking idea where he is! He could have been… he might have…"

"He didn't," Nathan says. "Didn't you say he's like a superhero or something? The superhero never gets splatted in the middle of the story. He might _almost_ get splatted, but then at the end he grabs onto a piece of dangling metal and pulls himself to safety. Or he starts to fall but then a jutting ledge miraculously appears and he's able to stop his descent. Jesus, man, everybody knows that. I thought you said you were into comics and shit?"

So very reasonable. If a little twisted. Maybe that's why the guy that originally tried to rob him with a Rambo knife – sorry, a Crocodile Dundee knife – is rapidly becoming one of his best friends.

And he has a point. No way John McClane's going out like that – on a collapsing bridge, alone, unremarked, not having just saved a hundred people from certain death or rescued a family from a burning building or saved the world from eco-terrorists. Falling from a collapsing bridge is not a hero's exit. And it sure as hell isn't the way a _super_ hero -- or in this case, a super _cop_ \-- goes out.

So they find him. They just… make their way to Manhattan and find him. Hell, they may as well find a way to kill all the dragons while they're at it. 

Matt nods. Get to Manhattan, find John, kill the dragons. That's the plan. And it's such a _McClane_ plan that he feels like it just might work.

"There's the tunnel," he says.

He hasn't noticed that a couple of members of their ragtag little group have rejoined them until Dave puts in, "And it's underground."

Sharon rolls her eyes. "Tunnels normally are, numbnuts."

"That's not true!" Dave protests. "There's aboveground tunnels all over the—"

Matt holds up a hand. One thing he's learned while trekking several miles through a destroyed urban landscape with a couple of kids is that a swift shutdown to these bickering little squabbles between siblings is a requirement for his sanity. He sure as fuck doesn't remember being so argumentative with Spencer when he was ten, and Spencer was a fuckton more annoying at thirteen than Sharon is with her brother. "It doesn't matter," he says, turning to them and including Nathan. "Listen, it could be dangerous. We don't know what we're going to find on the other side—"

"We already know what we've found here," Sharon says. 

Matt follows her gaze, looking past the creaking remains of the bridge and focusing instead on the people. Dozens of them, dozens upon dozens, drawn to the spectacle and staying to stand around and gape. Without a thought to the fact that the destruction was caused by a giant fire breathing _flying dragon_ and that there are at least two more of them currently at large who could return to finish the job and turn them _all_ into crispy critters. Nope, they don't think about that. Because people, by and large, are idiots.

Besides, what's he going to do? Leave a couple of little kids with one of these glazed eyed robots?

"The tunnel, then," Matt says.

"The tunnel," Nathan agrees.

Sharon nods. 

"And besides," Dave adds, "our Dad's in Manhattan. We wanna find him, too."

Matt lets Nathan take the lead across the glassy slope and toward the concrete entrance to the tunnel. He deliberately doesn't look back at the fallen bridge or at the people who continue to mill around it like sheep to the slaughter. He frowns down at the vans he threw on before running out of the house – was that only a couple of hours ago? – and tries to feel guilty. Two hours, and he hadn't even given more than a passing thought to his own parents in their sprawling house in New Haven, or to his grandmother in her lavender and talcum powder scented retirement home. He'd only thought of John, and maybe that's how it goes when you're in love with someone – and when your parents are only vague entities that you think of once a year when you're scrawling their names on a Christmas card. So he scowls at his shoes and tries to feel guilty, except it doesn't work at all. He feels more concern for the father that Dave and Sharon have mentioned only vaguely in the past two hours than he does for his own parents. 

That might be fucked up, but it's the truth.

"What does your dad do in the City?" Nathan asks. "You never said."

"He's a newscaster," Dave answers. "He does the sports on Channel Four. Craig Colqhoun." He looks around to include Matt in the conversation. "You ever heard of him?"

Matt snorts, multiple memories of John shouting, flailing, and bitching at the television as Colqhoun's mug filled the screen racing through his head. "Oh yeah," Matt says dryly. "I've heard of him."

* * *

"Okay," Dave says, his voice barely above a whisper. "So. Totally. Creepy."

"It's not that bad," Matt lies. Of course, the falsehood would probably go over better if his voice didn't crack on that final word. And if his head wasn't on a constant swivel trying to see everywhere at once. And if he wasn't having visions of giant mutated sewer rats emerging from the side tunnels to rip their faces off and then feast on their intestines. 

People might have found that last bit laughable in the past; they might have muttered that that's just the kind of thing that someone like Matt Farrell with his overactive imagination would have nightmares about. But once you start dealing with giant flying lizards, suddenly giant mutated rats aren't such an impossibility.

And he _really_ wishes he hadn't just thought of that.

"Why didn't we take the Brooklyn Battery tunnel again?" Sharon asks quietly.

Nathan shakes his head, barely discernable in the gloom of the subway passage. "Too congested," he tells her again. "I couldn't get more than twenty-five feet inside. There's been… some accidents."

Matt meets his eyes over the heads of the kids. Nathan didn't have to say aloud what he'd seen; Matt could read it in the too-pale pallor of his skin and the sweat that had been prickling on his brow despite the cool wind and the light sprinkling of rain that had started to fall when he stumbled back out into the light. Maybe someday Nathan would tell him – maybe someday Nathan would _have_ to tell him, when the nightmares got too much to handle – but for now, Matt didn't want to know. He didn't want to think about what could be worse than the mangled and charred bodies crushed beneath crumbled buildings that they'd already seen.

"Right," Sharon says. Her grip on his arm is too tight, but Matt doesn't protest. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other and not thinking about rats. Or mice. Or monstrous transmuted roaches. "Too bad we don't have some flashlights."

At this point Matt would genuflect and sing hallelujahs for a pack of matches, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. The emergency lighting in the subway system is what some would call 'insufficient'. He sneaks a peek at the flickering light at the curve of the tunnel ahead and adds 'ridiculous', 'unsatisfactory', 'substandard', and 'an insult to lights everywhere' to the list. If they actually survive the trip through the tunnel _and_ the fire breathing dragons he plans to write a strongly worded blog post about the subject.

And Dave is right. It is _so_ fucking creepy. Their footsteps echo back to them, making it sound as though they're being followed (possibly by a pack of mutant dogs, because why the fuck not) and though Matt tells himself that the water dripping from the overhead pipes is just condensation and not actually river water seeping through a crack in the foundation and about to cause the entire thing to collapse and send them to a watery death… well, he _does_ have that bizarre imagination. He can hear the kids breath straining in the silence and for the first time in his life can't think of a single thing to say to ease the tension.

No. Correction. The second time. The _first_ time was when he was running on fumes and a single stale convenience store hotdog on a road trip from hell listening to John talk about how heroes eat alone and realizing with no surprise at all that he'd gone and fallen in love with the fucker. 

And now he's about to traipse blithely into a city of one and a half million people – hell, there's probably two million bodies in the city when you count the commuters and the tourists – while it's being attacked by flying lizards, filled with panicked people, and most likely under a military crackdown by now – and expect to just find him. One guy. One pretty conspicuous guy, but still. He'd never thought of himself as delusional before but _whoa_. He really is nuts. And—

"Alien invasion," Nathan says.

Matt blinks in the gloom; almost stumbles over one of the railway tracks. "Huh?"

"That's my guess," Nathan says firmly. He meets Matt's eyes again, this time nods subtly toward the kids who… yeah, who look fucking terrified. "So there's a planet of lizard-like creatures, see?" Nathan continues. "Except the planet is dying. Who knows why. Could be lack of water, lack of sunlight—"

"Lack of sunlight!" Sharon says confidently. "We went to Arizona last year and there were tons of them laying on rocks soaking up the sun."

"There ya go. Lizards need sunlight, and their sun is dying. So they're planning an invasion, but first they gotta send a few scouts to check us out—"

"Nah, I say they're mechanical," Dave interrupts. "Some real life Tony Stark who got carried away with creating a super computer android robot—"

Sharon snorts. "An android _is_ a robot, chuckles."

"Good thought, Dave," Nathan says, "but I saw their guts. They're not mechanical."

"You DID?" Dave asks excitedly. 

Matt looks up quickly. This is news to him, too. "You saw the downed one?" he asks sharply.

Dave scowls at him for the interruption, then turns his enthusiastic face back to Nathan. "What did it look like?"

"Black," Nathan says, "and smelly. Like rotten eggs and gasoline."

"Gross," Dave says.

"You know it. Whatever they're eating on Planet Lizardville, it sure as hell isn't good stuff like pizza and Kentucky Fried Chicken."

"We were learning about global warming in school," Sharon puts in thoughtfully. "Maybe the dragons were frozen somewhere and got thawed out."

Matt would point out that they haven't actually been transported into Reign of Fire if he thought that either Sharon or Dave would have even heard of the movie. Kids these days have no respect for the classics. But he sincerely hopes that if Sharon's theory does pan out Matthew McConaughey will show up to save the day. Or at least to just stand around looking hot.

"You doubt my alien invasion theory?" Nathan says, clutching his chest theatrically. "I'm hurt, kid. Genuinely hurt."

"Genetic engineering," Matt says.

Dave turns to him, still grinning at Nathan's dramatics, and screws up his nose. "What's genetic engi--?"

"Scientists," Matt says, "who have too much time on their hands. They mess around with nature, inject animals with things that will make them grow faster or get stronger. And then something happens in the lab and they get a result they never intended and boom! Giant mutated lizards that breathe fire." Matt nods his head. "Genetic engineering did this. I guarantee you."

Dave cocks his head and gives the theory all the consideration in deserves. Then he turns back to Nathan. "So," he says enthusiastically, "what do you think they eat on Lizardville? I bet it's bugs! Giant bugs that they fry first and then slurp up with their giant tongues!"

"Ewww," Sharon says, nudging her brother in the shoulder. "That's disgusting, Davey."

"But probably accurate," Nathan says. "They may also raid the nests of the local pterodactyls for eggs. Very nutritious, and full of protein."

Matt rolls his eyes at Nathan. But Sharon no longer has a death grip on his elbow and Dave is practically skipping as they make their careful way through the dark, so he decides to keep his own extremely rational and logical reasons why this cannot be an alien invasion to himself. And as Nathan and the kids chatter on, Matt realizes they've made it at least halfway through the tunnel and it's been at least a good ten to fifteen minutes since he's thought about a potential – probable? – attack by mutated rodents. 

Maybe Nathan isn't just good at distracting the kids.

 

** VI **

There are people huddled on the stairs. Some singletons, but those in twos and threes have their arms wrapped around each other. They all stare blankly up at the sky, heedless of the light rain that's drenching their upturned faces, and John wonders if this is what it was like when men still hunkered in caves, shocked and awed by meteors streaking across the heavens. Wonders how far away mankind really is from a return to their roots. 

He shakes his head and picks his way through the crowd, his boots crunching on tiny chips of concrete blown into the subway entrance by the wind. The sound of voices gets louder as he descends the staircase, echoing off the tiled walls, and the steels himself for chaos. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, rubs at his chin.

He'd expected crying, anger, shock. And there is some of that, yes, along with the stench of sweat and the clamor of too many voices vying to be heard. But the chaos that he sees is at least _organized_ chaos. 

A group of children tucked into one corner away from the bustle, the oldest staring about cautiously while the youngest jump and play, mostly oblivious. All of them watched over by a pale young woman in a long pleated skirt and a bearded six foot five monster with a beer gut who looks like he could take out one of the dragons himself. Their fellow refugees give the biker a wide birth, but John thinks it might just be the one who looks like a timid librarian who would really raise havoc if anyone tried to hurt those kids.

A young man with long braids has insinuated himself behind the counter of the underground Starbucks, handing out bottled water and fruit juice. John blinks, looks closer and finds the oversized floral coat tossed over one of the newfangled coffee presses. He doesn't see the shocked soccer mom among the people standing nervously and sipping OJ near the counter, but he'd bet dollars to doughnuts the kid got her here just fine.

Another group of three – two men and a woman – have commandeered the chocolate bars and packs of candy and twizzlers from the little bodega and are handing out one item to each person who approaches, keeping track of who's taken what on a clipboard that might have come from the ticket booth. 

He feels a swell of pride for his city, his people. When the chips are down, New Yorkers take care of each other. That's just how it is.

"Anyone with injuries to the southeast corner!" a male voice calls out. "Southeast corner beneath the map! See Magda and Charles!"

John's head swivels toward the large transit map. A smaller group there, making do with strips of torn fabric from people's clothing to bind wounds; rinsing cuts with damp rags of the same material. He squints, and finds the soccer mom propped against the wall, her legs splayed out and her arm bound with a swatch of bright blue material. She still has a vice grip on her oversized handbag. Despite everything, John grins. The kid did good.

"Anyone with electrical experience, please see Ernie at pole 6!" the man's voice yells again. "Anyone with injuries to the southeast corner by the map!"

John turns again, focusing past the rising tide of voices – some crying, some raging, some simply sitting or standing in small groups, talking and trying to piece together how the hell this happened so quickly and what the fuck to do about it – to find the speaker. He finally spots the man amidst a knot of elderly people. When he looks closer, John sees that it's actually _his_ group of elderly people. He watches as the man stoops to listen, then waves Garry and his fellow Idahoans toward the bodega.

John steps off the bottom stair and weaves his way through the crowd. "You the guy in charge?"

The man turns, distractedly brushing a lock of sandy brown hair out of his eyes. There is dirt smeared on his cheek; a fine layer of grey concrete dust coating his white button down and dark blue trousers. "I seem to be," he answers. "Name's Craig—"

"Colqhoun," John grits out.

"That's me," Craig Colqhoun answers. His grin is weak, but the handshake he offers is anything but. "I'm afraid tonight's sportscast is cancelled."

"Detective!" Garry's voice rings out with impeccable timing, because John's fairly certain that not even the dragon age apocalypse should stop him from laying into Colqhoun for his completely fucking prejudiced outlook on the Mets chances this season, no matter how much the guy appears to have gotten things under control here. "You made it! Did you take care of your business?"

John stares down Colqhoun for another moment before he lets out a breath – and Matt says he doesn't know how to control his temper! – and turns to the old geezer. "Reached my daughter," he says. "She's fine."

Garry claps arthritic hands together at chest level. "Good! That's wonderful to hear, Detecti—"

"John McClane," Colqhoun interrupts. He studies John, eyes flicking from the tips of his battered boots to the drops of rain beading on the bare crown of his head. "You were at the station for an interview last year," he muses aloud. "After that firesale business. And I seem to recall… wasn't there something about the theft of gold bars a few years earlier--"

"Look," John says, ignoring both Colqhoun's speculative look and the surprised if delayed recognition on Garry's face, "you got everything runnin' smoothly here. That's great, you're doing what ya can to take care of these people. Maybe you ain't the dink you seem to be on TV. But I gotta—"

"Mr. Colqhoun! Miss Chambers!" 

The strident voice stops him. And as he turns to see the little man hunkered over the old style radio equipment near the tracks, John takes a moment to be grateful. Because he's gotta… what, exactly? Make his way back to a precinct that could be nothing more than a pile of rubble by now? Paddle his way across the East River to find Matt in the endless streets of the borough? He's used to action – to doing now and thinking later – and for the first time since Holly came to him and told him that she wanted out of their marriage he doesn't have a fucking clue what to actually _do_.

"Ernie?" Colqhoun calls back.

The man – Ernie – looks up, bright blue eyes shining. "I think I've got something!" he calls excitedly.

* * *

There must be over a hundred people… maybe even closer to one hundred and fifty… crowded onto the subway platform, but the silence is overwhelming. Even the children under the watchful eye of the librarian and the biker have muted their voices, quietly playing hopscotch on grids scrawled on the floor with black sharpies or looking through the books plundered from the racks of the bodega.

Ernie hunkers again over the ancient dial of the radio and makes a minute adjustment. John holds his breath along with everyone else.

 _"…ork City is now under martial law,"_ a voice suddenly blares from the radio. Ernie dives for the dial and the voice retreats from eardrum-blasting to just loud enough for everyone to hear. _All residents are instructed to remain inside for the duration of the emergency. Repeat, all residents must stay off the streets during this emergency. Seek underground shelter if it is available, and stay away from all doors, windows, and points of egress to avoid risk of falling debris. All residents south of the Lower East Side are advised to withdraw from the area within the next thirty minutes if possible. If a withdrawal from the area is not possible, it is imperative that you remain indoors while the United States Armed Forces and the National Guard coordinate their attack on the flying creatures in our skies. Said coordinated attack is set to take place over the East River at five p.m. eastern standard time."_

"How are they gonna get them to go to the fuckin' water?" John barks out.

"Shhh!" someone hisses from the back.

 _"…in all cases, remain calm. This message will be updated at seven p.m. eastern standard time. This has been the Emergency Broadcast Network. May God bless and keep us all."_ There is a pause before the message started again. 

John stands, knees creaking, and pushes his way through the crowd toward the stairs. Though most of the refugees remained huddled around Ernie and the wartime radio, listening intently again to the recorded message, John sees a few detach themselves from the group. Men reaching for women; women looking nervously toward the children in the corner. Singles gathering backpacks or briefcases or shopping bags.

He isn't surprised to find that Craig Colqhoun has followed him, nor that Garry had made his laborious way through the masses to his side. He isn't even surprised to find the kid with the braids, and glances over his shoulder to see that he has handed off his refreshment duty to a sallow faced girl with bright red hair. 

"Jamal," the kid says by way of introduction. "You helped me with that old lady on the street, after her car hit my bike."

"I remember," John says, even as he feels his eyebrows crawl up his brow at 'old lady'. The soccer mom that Jamal had been painstakingly trying to take care of – the one with blank eyes and the death grip on some designer handbag – had been no more than forty years old. At this rate, he must seem like Methuselah to the damn kid.

"Figure you might need some help yourself about now."

John cocks a brow. "Oh yeah?"

"They're gonna wanna leave," Jamal says, jutting his chin toward the people gathered around Ernie and the ancient radio. More of them are shifting in place now, glancing toward the staircase that leads to the street. "We're within the fight radius."

"And it's already four forty-five by my trusty Seiko," Garry puts in. He glances at his wrist and smiles fondly. "A gift from my wife for our first Christmas together in '47, and it's never run late yet. Provided I remember to wind it every morning of course, and that's a habit I'm not likely to break at this late stage in the game."

"You've kept everyone together so far," John says to Colqhoun.

"That was before they knew that an aerial battle was going to take place directly above their heads, Detective," Garry says before Craig can respond. "The young man is correct. These people are going to want to leave. Either to flee from the region out of fear, or to find their loved ones and make sure they're safe." 

John swipes a hand over his chin, tries not to think about _his_ loved one. Maybe buried under a pile of rubble, maybe trapped beneath a chunk of concrete and unable to get free, maybe hurt and scared and—

And sure that John McClane is on the way to rescue him. Because that's what John fucking _does_ \-- jesus, it's how they met, for fucks sake – and finding Matt? Saving Matt? _That_ is the thing that he's gotta do. And instead he's stuck inside a smelly, overcrowded subway station with The World's Oldest Professor, a smarmy two-bit local sports celebrity, and a kid who looks like he came directly from the set of  The Fresh Prince of Bel Air looking to him for guidance.

John slams the palm of his hand against one of the support posts. The man nearest to him – some long hair in too many shirts, because it's not like he doesn't need another reminder of his nearest and dearest – jerks a startled look at him before bending to hastily tuck a Baby Ruth into his gym bag. Which he will no doubt then swing over his shoulder before venturing outside and risking his life to travel a couple of dozen damn blocks.

"Shit," John mutters.

 

** VII **

"What if the next station is blocked, too?" Dave asks quietly.

Matt shifts to sling an arm over the boy's shoulder. The wall at their backs is slick and cold – damp, even – and Matt is definitely not thinking about possible water main breaks or flooding around the next bend in the tracks. He's also not thinking about rats, either the regular sewer rats that are the size of healthy kittens or the mutated gene ones that belong in The Princess Bride. And he _really_ isn't thinking about the quick slither that he felt at the nape of his neck that disappeared beneath the collar of his T-shirt when he swiped at it, or how some disgusting multi-legged antenna-festooned bug is probably nesting in the sweat at the small of his back.

Nope, not thinking about those things at all.

He's thinking about kids who've been doing their best to keep up a brave face while trekking endless miles through the dirt and grime of the tunnels of the New York City subway system. He's thinking about how much he hated it when his parents lied to him even if it was only about how they totally _did_ let him win at checkers, and how his brother Spencer would always rather hear a happy lie than the painful truth. 

He's only known Dave a couple of hours, but he kind of figures the kid is more of a Matthew than a Spencer. 

"It might be," Matt says. He lifts a finger before the kid can say anything else. "But if the next station is blocked, then we'll continue on to the one after that. They can't all be blocked," he says confidently. "If I hadn't dropped my gear out of my bag and broken it back when that rat attacked us—"

Sharon giggles. "That was a STONE that fell when I slipped on the—"

"It was a _rat_ ," Matt insists vehemently. "I saw its eyes!"

"It really was just a—" Nathan starts.

"Rat!" Matt says. He narrows his eyes, and when Sharon just rolls hers, he continues. "As I was saying, _David_ ," he says pointedly, "if I still had my gear I could work up a statistical analysis on the situation. Factor in the number of subway stations on this line and the known areas that the dragons have been seen, plus the influence on any counter attacks by ground or air forces… then I'd have to allow for flight patterns and the weather…"

He stops when he realizes Dave is tugging on his sleeve. 

"You're kind of a nerd, aren't you?" the boy asks, blinking up innocently at him through the gloom.

"Are you kidding? I'm a total nerd!" Matt crows. He puffs out his chest – what little of it he has, anyway. "Proud to be a nerd! Nerds are responsible for most – nay, I would venture to say all -- of the important scientific discoveries of the last two hundred years. Did you know that—"

"Did _you_ know that nobody actually says 'nay', dude?" Nathan asks.

Matt huffs out an elaborate breath, but meets Nathan's eyes again over the heads of the kids. The worry that had creased their faces since they passed the rubble that is all that is left of the Wall Street station has mostly eased, now. A little of the horror remains, but they'd all probably be needing therapy when this was through. They'd tried to keep the kids eyes averted as best they could, but some of the bodies… some of the _parts_ of the bodies… had flown as far as the tracks. They'd had to maneuver around them as best they could while keeping their hands over the kid's eyes and… sometimes maneuvering around wasn't possible. Sometimes moving _over_ was the only option.

Matt shudders, pushes himself away from the wall before he can let that memory take hold. He eases himself to his feet, wipes the crumbs off his shirt. They'd each had one of the flakies and one of the chocolate swiss rolls that Matt had managed to stuff into his bag before the dragon veered back toward the house, and now they are already dangerously low on food. Well, 'dangerously' if the Fulton station is the same crumbled and smoldering mess as the Wall Street one. 

Which it won't be. Law of averages.

He hopes.

He slides his messenger bag over his shoulder as the others get up from their impromptu dinner; lets Nathan take the lead as they resume their slog through the murky tunnel. They are past the bend – where there is no flood, because the dampness of the wall is _still_ only condensation from the pipes, no matter what his ridiculous imagination has to say about it – when Sharon nudges Nathan's shoulder.

"Do you think Matt really saw a rat, Nate?" Sharon asks.

"Nah," Nathan says. "He was running too fast to see anything at all."

"HEY!"

Matt's protest at this burn goes unheeded. He's forced to admit that's probably for the best. He _was_ running pretty fast. In his defense, though, he did pick up Dave and carry him a good fifty yards. He never knew he had it in him. McClane would be proud.

Maybe he could have ripped that stupid old-fashioned telephone right out of the wall after all.

"Anyway," Nathan continues, "if we do see a rat, I've got a big knife that can take care of it."

"Oooh, can we see it?" Dave asks excitedly.

 

**VIII**

"You don't understand, I've got to get home!" someone at the back says.

"My cat's all alone!" a woman in a plaid jacket cries plaintively. "What if the building's collapsed? I've got to get to her!"

"We've been here long enough!" a male voice calls out.

A sour-faced man with his briefcase clenched in a double-fisted grip pushes past the cat lover. "They said they're going to be fighting those monsters right above our fucking heads! We've got to get the hell out of here!"

John's eyes flick over the gathered crowd. The businessman's easy – he'll back down in a heartbeat; all bluster, no guts – but the cat lady's got a glint of steel in her eye that reminds him a little of Lucy. There's a few more like her in the group – a guy in a neat vest and tie combo, two of the gawking tourists, a woman with her arm wrapped protectively over the shoulder of a nervous looking preteen. And though the businessman himself won't make a break, his loudmouthed pronouncements are of the kind that will stir the ones who will. The crowd is restless, scared… and twitchy frightened people make dumb moves. It won't take much to turn this whole thing pear-shaped.

"People, people." Colqhoun raises his voice, lifts a hand to still the murmuring voices. "We all have loved ones at home. We're all worried. We all want to make sure our family members are all right. My children…" John watches the man's swallow as his voice cracks; watches too as Colqhoun masters himself and lifts his chin to continue addressing the crowd. "My children were at school in Brooklyn when the attacks began. I haven't been able to reach them. I want nothing more than to rush out there and find them. But the danger outside far outweighs what _I_ want."

"It's not going to do your family any good if you go and get yourselves killed!" Jamal adds.

"We're gonna get killed staying here when they start fighting those things and send this whole structure down on our heads!" a young woman yells.

"You got no right to keep us here!" the businessman shouts. "You can't force us to stay!"

There's a rising tide of assent, and John is reminded of a line from one of Matt's favourite movies, the ridiculous one about aliens living among us: _A person is smart. People are dumb._ In a one on one situation most anyone could be made to listen to reason; in a group like this there is going to be a tidal wave sweeping toward the stairs any minute, people flowing like lemmings up onto the street. And he can already picture the detail afterward: more men and women crushed under falling rubble, more blood. It doesn't take much to picture one of those dragons making a strafing run down the street, spewing fire at all the darting bodies. He meets the eye of the woman with the antsy kid, the one who looks determined to make a dash past the line he and the others have so far held, blocking the stairs. He really doesn't want to be picking her little girl's charred and broken body out from beneath the crumbled remains of a high-rise tomorrow or next week. 

So far no one's considered using another stairwell or trying to make it up to the concourse, and for that he's grateful… but their luck ain't gonna hold.

"You wanna know what you're gonna find out there?" John shouts over the tumult. He waits until most of the faces have turned his way before continuing. "Besides the dead bodies, the buildings ready to collapse if you look at them funny, the choking dust? You're gonna find looting. You're gonna find men who maybe think it's okay to take advantage of a woman 'cause there ain't no one around to make 'em stop. You're gonna find people with guns and knives and goddamn baseball bats. Because shit like this gives those kinda people the excuse they need to behave like jackasses!" John walks slowly forward, nodding to some, gesturing to others. "But it also brings out the best in people like _us_ ," John continues. "People that stopped to help each other, to bind each other's wounds, to make sure everyone stayed hydrated. Hell, just to offer a shoulder to lean on! We need to stay here, to stay _safe_ , to continue to help each other. And once our fighting men and women have kicked the asses of every one of those flying sons of bitches, _then_ we go out there and find our people! Together!"

"Or sometimes," a voice says, "our people find us."

John whirls toward the sound of the voice, eyes wide; cranes to see past the mass of sweaty bodies to the small group of dirt-streaked figures emerging from the tunnel. At first he can only see a haze of indistinct bodies; then he blinks and one slim form steps forward, wide eyes and shaggy hair and dusty T-shirt over ragged pajama bottoms.

"Hey, John," Matt says.

Jesus Christ, the kid even waves.

John doesn't remember pushing through the crowd. He's fairly certain his boots never touch the floor. He just knows that one moment he is standing with Garry on his left and Colqhoun and Jamal on his right facing down a scared mob of civilians, and the next he has Matt crushed in his arms; can feel the kid's heart rabbiting against his own. In that moment he doesn't give a shit if the entire place empties out en masse. 

"Jesus," he sighs out. He's vaguely aware of a couple of kids scampering past; of someone hovering over Matt's shoulder. His hands move through the Matt's hair, down his arms, back to frame his cheeks. He can't stop. The kid is covered with dust and grime and he's alive and whole and John simply can't stop touching him. "You look like shit, Matty."

Matt huffs out a laugh. "Been a rough day, McClane."

"I hear ya," John says. He can taste the grit on Matt's lips. He pulls back just enough to meet Matt's eyes. "You okay?"

The breath Matt lets out is shaky, and John envisions a dozen future nightmares, a dozen nights sitting up and listening to Matt's quiet voice in the dark. He holds on just a little tighter, but for now Matt simply nods. "I'm okay," he says. "But the house? It's kind of… gone. And I'm pretty sure our house insurance doesn't cover 'flattened by flying lizard'."

"Don't give a shit about the house," John grunts out. "Jesus, Matty."

"I… kind of panicked, okay?" Matt says, as if he didn't even hear the response. As if he thinks bricks and mortar could be more important than one scrawny ex-hacker. "So I didn't manage to grab much before, you know, than giant slimy scaly thing did a one-eighty over Mr. Schuyler's pool and headed straight for the house. I mean, dragons, McClane! And I was halfway down the block when I remembered and had to double back, and by that time it was turning Cal Myers place into matchsticks. Cal's car was still in the driveway but… he definitely works Tuesdays. I mean. I'm pretty sure he wasn't home and even if he was there was nothing I could do because holy fuck that thing was huge and—"

"Matty," John says slowly. "Breathe."

"Right," Matt says. Matt's eyes slip quickly closed, and John doesn't have to mentally count through the two rounds of ins and outs to know that Matt is using the technique he learned during all those therapy sessions after the firesale bullshit. Hell, he's even doing it along with him because what works _works_ , even if you did learn it from a headshrinker in a Mickey Mouse tie. When Matt opens his eyes again the panic has receded, and he gestures to his bag. "I had to take off again pretty fast," he says, "but I did manage to get this." 

John has to let him go – has to stop touching him – in order to let Matt slide the messenger bag from his shoulder. He watches as Matt rummages inside, and then it's his breath that comes out unsteadily as he reaches for the proffered item.

The photo has been folded in half. He unfolds it shakily, his thumb swiping away the thin film of dirt and concrete dust to reveal the smiling faces of Lucy and Jack, the same photo that has been gracing his mantle ever since they'd had it taken a few months before Holly took the job with Nakatomi and moved to Los Angeles. He'd once carried a matching one in his wallet.

He shakes his head. "You risked your life for _this_?"

"I'd hardly say 'risked my life'," Matt scoffs. "Weren't you listening? By then the dragon was two blocks away and _really_ fixated on Cal's place. I did some quick calculations and estimated the time it would take for it to finish and its rate of acceleration – you know they have to hover in place when they're breathing fire, right? – and figured that I had anywhere from three to four minutes before—"

 _Before you were nothing more than a pile of bones and ash_ , John finishes in his head, and crushes Matt into his arms before the kid can say any more. 

"Okay," Matt squeaks out. "Can't breathe."

"Breathing's overrated, kid," John says.

 

** IX **

"So," Matt says. "I had this whole plan."

They are sitting on one of the lower steps leading to the street. Above them the battle is raging -- mortar fire and the screams of the dragons and the crash of buildings falling victim to the skirmish. It should seem weird to be having a conversation while a pitched battle potentially determining the fate of the human race is going on above their heads. But somehow it seems completely normal to be having this conversation with _John McClane_ , whose thigh is warm against his and who stops what he's doing every few minutes to brush his nose through his hair or press his lips to his brow. 

"Oh yeah?" John says now.

"It was brilliant, very McClane-esque," Matt says. "'Get to Manhattan, find John, defeat the dragons'." He shrugs. "A classic, right? And hey, two out of three ain't bad."

John's arm has been looped casually around his waist. Now it squeezes gently. Matt leans into him and tries not to cringe at the rattle of automatic fire from above, lets his gaze drift. They weren't successful in keeping everyone at bay – several dozen people demanded to leave and neither John nor the sportscaster could convince them of the danger – but everyone else is huddled on the floor of the platform. They too cringe at each blast and dart frightened eyes to the ceiling whenever there's a particularly loud rumble from overhead, and once when a fine silt of dust drifted from the ceiling there were stifled screams, but other than that everyone is pretty calm. 

He waits for John to speak and when nothing is forthcoming, Matt finally opens his mouth. "So…," he says, "we're really not going to go and defeat the dragons?"

John cocks his head. "What the hell do you think's going on up there, kid?"

"Well I _know_ , but… you're John McClane! There's been a precedent set in these kinds of situations, and don't even try to deny it. You jump from tall buildings using firehoses as rope—"

"It was a single firehose, and I was a helluva lot younger then."

"—and you fight crazy ninja chicks while dangling in an elevator shaft—"

"Figured she'd fall off before we got that far," John says.

"—and you got into a fistfight on the wing of a moving 747—"

"I was just trying to block the take-off, Matty."

"—and… and you're John McClane!" Matt finishes. "I just sorta thought—"

"What, that I'd go out there and spit bullets at them with my teeth?"

"No, but—"

"Listen, kid, I ain't no superhero." John lifts his gaze to the concrete ceiling, juts his chin. "Those guys up there? They're the superheroes. They're putting their lives on the line – not just today but every fucking day – to save our skins. So no, I'm not gonna go and try to stick my damn nose in, big as it is. I'm gonna let the men and women who know what the fuck they're doing do what they do best. And later, I'm gonna lead the fucking parade in their honour."

"I'll be there with you," Garry puts in as he joins them.

"And I," Craig adds. He looks over his shoulder at his kids, both resting sleepily against the tiled wall in Nathan's arms. "All of us."

John grins. "You're an okay guy, Colqhoun," he says. "But you still don't know shit about the Mets."

Matt waits until Craig and Jamal have started discussing the Mets chances next year – you know, once Citi Field has been rebuilt from its current smoldering ruin courtesy of Dragon Number Six – to rest his hand on John's knee and get his attention. Also, he doesn't want John joining in the squabble. The doctor's already talked to him once about his blood pressure and the last thing he needs is a repeat of _that_ argument.

"And what if…" Matt hardly wants to say it, but… He edges a little closer, lowers his voice to a whisper. "What if nobody _can_ defeat the dragons?"

John grits his teeth at the rumble of an explosion from above. "Then I guess we're going to California."

"Lucy?"

"Lucy."

Matt hates his imagination, he really does. Because it doesn't take much to picture the dragons spreading out from the east coast, laying waste to everything in their path. Breeding and continuing their line. Leaving nothing but destruction in their wake and forcing whatever humans are left to scuttle from one broken building to another, scrabbling out a meager existence, always keeping one eye on the sky. 

He's _so_ not made for the apocalypse. 

But he squares his shoulders and nods. Didn't he say he was going to ride this fucker? And he's definitely in for the whole shebang, no matter how hard the bastard bucks.

"I've always wanted to go on a long road trip," he says.

The End


End file.
